When I was a kid growing up in West Virginia, there were two funeral homes that served our community. One was Fiddler and Frame; the other Stevens and Grass. The competition between them was keen, but being funeral homes they had to be careful how they carried out their promotions. They had to be low-key, dignified, proper. That meant they had two primary forms of marketing. One was church fans. Do you remember them? They were extra-wide tongue depressors onto which a fan-shaped piece of cardboard had been attached. One side had a picture; the other the name, address, telephone number and slogan of the funeral home. It must have been a real coup whenever one of the homes got a church to agree to put its fans in the pews.

But it is their second form of marketing that most interests me today. That was the calendar—a large calendar with beautiful photographs and the name of the funeral home at the bottom of every page. What I remember most about those calendars were the pictures. Inevitably one month—usually the one in which Easter fell—would feature a family at worship. Mom would be all gussied up in her new dress, Easter bonnet and white gloves. Dad would be in a dark suit, starched white shirt and ultra-conservative tie. Then there were the children—usually two, one boy chafing under his starched shirt and tie and one girl in gloves and bonnet just like mom. The whole family would be seated on the pew in prayer or standing side by side singing joyfully the songs of the faith. It was—I suppose—the photographers’ picture of churchly perfection.

Now I don’t know how many people such Rockwellian works have influenced, but what I do know is that the image of the Christian faith conveyed in those pictures has been a common one. People, particularly in our culture, have often seen the Christian faith as the faith of winners, of the successful, of those who’ve got it all together.

She lived around the corner from the church, close enough to hear its bells and have churchgoers park on the street in front of her home. Yet the first time she entered the building, it was not on Sunday morning. It was not for worship. She had come seeking help with a large, past due electrical bill. She said her daughter was supposed to pay it, but she had a drug problem and had blown her meager income on coke.

At the end of the conversation, the preacher invited her to worship.

"I’d like to," she said. "Maybe when I get it all together, I can."

Did you hear what she said? "When I get it all together." Her image of the faith was that it was for those who "have it all together," whose lives are in order, who don’t have the kind of problems she has.

How many others have that impression?

I have heard it expressed in one way or another by:

And I am sure that doesn’t come close to covering all who have felt that way. How many others think the Christian faith is only for those who could be pictured in funeral home calendars?

Yet that is not what the Christian faith is about. That is not for who Christ came.

A number of years ago, William Willimon strode to the pulpit and announced: "If your marriage is happy, if you have no addictions, if your children are all obedient and respectful, if you can say all the words to the creed by heart and have no major problems with believing the Bible and all of it, then you can leave now. This service is not for you."

And he was right. The Christian faith is not for the winners, the successful, the got-it-all-togethers. It is for those who don’t, for those who struggle with their lives, who recognize that they can’t make it on their own. The Christian faith is for those who know they can’t make it without God.

Two men went to worship one day. One was a Pharisee. Although we often picture Pharisees as villains, he was no bad guy. He was a person to be admired. After all, he was devoted to his faith. He not only knew the Scriptures and taught them to others, he lived them. In fact, he went beyond them—fasting twice a week and giving a tithe of everything he received. He was a man you would want mentoring children, leading the congregation, marrying your daughter. As a Pharisee, he had it all together.

Then there was the tax collector. He was not some misunderstood saint, some tax collector with a heart of gold. He was everything the Pharisee was not. From what we know of tax collectors, he was a traitor to his people and the faith—a Jew working for the Roman oppressors. He was a thief, lining his own pockets with some of the money he collected. He was a thug, never hesitant to use intimidation or violence to get his way. He was the kind of man no one liked and no one trusted.

Yet Jesus says that when these two men left worship, it was not the Pharisee who went away justified. It was the tax collector. It was not the one who had it all together, but the one who didn’t. It was not the one who thought he could do it all himself; it was the one who admitted he couldn’t do it without God. It is the one who prayed: "God, be merciful to me, a sinner!"

The service was about to begin when he slipped through the doors, took a seat on a back pew. His eyes were red; his hands shaky. He seemed uncomfortable, out of place among the old friends greeting one another.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

"After the service," I said, before marching up the aisle during the opening hymn.

It was a typical Sunday. Ruth prayed. The choir sang. I preached of faith or grace or some such topic. Rochelle served at the table. As far as I was concerned, it was just another service. No voices from heaven. No rushes of holy wind. No tongues of flame. Yet as I stood at the door, the man who had sought to meet after worship gave me a note as he left the sanctuary and headed out the door. "Thank you," it said. "I found exactly what I needed here today."

What did he find? I have no idea. But I know that two men left that day, and only one was justified, the one who had come to this place knowing he couldn’t do it alone, that he couldn’t make it another moment without God.

Photographs can be deceiving. Behind the picture perfect moment caught on film, there can be a husband and wife whose marriage hangs by a thread. There can be a son filled with rage or a daughter who will soon find solace in a bottle. Behind the careful portraits we offer of ourselves, there can be the agony of broken relationships, failed businesses, unresolved grief, debilitating guilt. There can be the pain of depression and anxiety, despair and fear. Old habits and new temptations can be wreaking havoc on our lives.

If that’s true of you, if you don’t have it all together, if you know that you need God, then the Christian faith is for you. For as Christ himself said, "Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick; I have come to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance." Christ has come so that every one of us might pray, "God, be merciful to me, a sinner!" and know that we receive his love and grace. Amen.